His face though? Priceless.
Like someone’s tossed him a live grenade while he’s mid-surgery. His handsome features are frozen in shock, his hands gripping my thighs like he’s afraid to move, blink, or breathe.
His scent hits me, woody and spice. It’s unfair for someone to smell this good after spending all day in surgery. Every nervein my body is suddenly on high alert, every sense dialed to max volume.
I realize something that makes my stomach flip. This visceral, electric awareness of Edward? It’s not new. It’s been there all along, hiding in the shadows, waiting for the right moment to strike. Like some traitorous part of my body has been keeping a secret from my brain.
And now, wrapped around him like some deranged marsupial, that secret is out. Loudly.
“Daisy,” he growls, like he’s summoning every ounce of self-control just to get my name out. “What the hell are you doing?”
“I’m so happy I could kiss you,” I blurt, my mouth running rogue. “Not that I will! Obviously. God, no. I mean—sorry. You’re doing this for Sophia, not me. But still—thank you.”
His jaw clenches, nostrils flaring. “Getdown.”
The words are practicallyguttural.
And yet . . . his hands—the same hands that perform miracles—tighten on my thighs. Not enough to move me. But just enough to hold me there.
I’m straddling Edward Cavendish.
In the middle of a field.
Full-on, thighs-wrapped, core-pressed-against-him, feeling-every-damn-inch-of-him straddling.
But I don’t move. I can’t move.
Holy. Shit.
This feels . . .good.
Not just good—dangerous. Inappropriately, criminally, “this should not be happening with your ex’s brother” good.
Every single point of contact between us is crackling, alive with a heat that’s fucking scorching. And where I’m pressed against his—oh.
Oh fuck.
That’s definitely not a stethoscope in his pocket.
His breath catches—a sound that travels straight to my core, igniting parts of me that absolutely need to shut up and stop having opinions right this second. It’s the kind of sound that makes me want to find out what other noises I could pull out of him.
But his hands stay right where they are, fingers pressing just alittleharder into my thighs—like he’s making a counterargument.
His chest is solid granite against mine, and oh sweet hell, my tits are molded to him like they’ve found their forever home.
Through my flimsy top, I feel it all: the taut lines of muscle, the steady rise and fall of his breath, the quickening thud of his heart that betrays his cool exterior.
And sweet Jesus, Edward Cavendish is a whole different category of male. Compared to Charlie or Spencer—whatwasI thinking?—he’s a MAN. Capital M. Grown-ass, testosterone-drenched,probably makes junior doctors cry just by looking at themman.
“You’re testing my patience, Daisy.”
It’s not a request; it’s an order. One that should’ve had me peeling off him in a heartbeat.
His steel-blue eyes lock onto mine, and the entire universe narrows to this single, electric thread of connection.
There’s something dangerous in those eyes.
Something raw.
